


Insomnia and Violins

by shiverfawkes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Cuddling, First Meetings, Insomnia, M/M, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:25:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: “Sorry,” He laughed awkwardly. “This went better in my head. I uhm, I wanted to thank you, I suppose. Your playing, the violin I think it is? It’s lovely, quite lovely indeed.”





	Insomnia and Violins

John Watson woke up like a shot.

It wasn’t from a night-terror this time. But from the realisation that he’d been asleep in the first place, because he didn’t remember falling asleep.

Sure enough, when he lifted his head, and cracked his back, there he was. He was sitting in his chair, his laptop in front of him, with far too many of the letter h typed into his blog.

For a laugh he was tempted to post it. His therapist wouldn’t be able to say anything about him not using it. If not for his abuse of the keyboard.

He glanced the clock, it was three in the morning. Sighing to himself, he groaned out loud and got up to pace his small flat in the hopes it would tire him out enough for him to go back to sleep.

He got four laps of the room in, his cane thudding against the ground with every step he took, he was thankful he lived in the ground flat or he’d feel guilty every time this happened. Four laps, to one side and back, before something began upstairs.

It would’ve been in his first instinct to groan, because most of the racket that came from upstairs was usually completely insane. Once it had been various alarm clocks set to go off one after each other, another time it was tap-dancing, on one occasion it had been gun-shots.

Those set John off immediately. He had to spend the rest of the night unable to walk because of his limp and shaking from a panic attack. But he was awake, staring up at the ceiling as screams from Afghanistan haunted his ears.

At least that time his neighbour had been nice enough to leave a note through his door, stating that nobody had been injured, other than the plaster of the wall. 

This time it was different. It was soft and melodic.

It was the violin.

John was out like a light.

He woke to silence, but the road outside, busy with cars.

This was the day he would speak to his neighbour. And thank them for their playing, it was the thing that had lulled him into unconsciousness.

In a fit of haste, he got dressed and presentable, sprinting up the stairs, his cane left leaning against his desk.

His knock on the door was far to quick to be considered normal, and but cursed himself but stood nonetheless.

The door opened to something he was far from expecting.

This man was the most beautiful man he’d ever laid eyes on. His skin porcelain and pale, eyes sparkling blue and dark curls that framed his face nicely, curling up at the nape of his neck. He wore a dark purple dress shirt and black trousers, and he was staring down at John expectantly.

“Good afternoon.” Afternoon? “How can I help you?”

John licked his lips, taking a step back before realising he’d forgotten his cane and stumbling, he gripped the door frame to keep himself upright and tried to will his face not to flush as the man gave him an odd look.

“Sorry,” He laughed awkwardly. “This went better in my head. I uhm, I wanted to thank you, I suppose. Your playing, the violin I think it is? It’s lovely, quite lovely indeed.”

“Would you like to come in? You look like you need a cup of tea.” The man replied, he walked in, leaving the door open. Then he paused, grabbing something, before handing it to John, handle up. It was an umbrella. “For your leg. It’s my brothers, feel free to ruin it.” He gave John a small smile.

John shook his head, before following the man, closing the door behind him. He managed to get himself sat at the small table by the kitchen.

His flat was fairly similar to John’s. Small and dark, claustrophobic, he clearly didn’t like it either, judging by the bullet holes in the wall.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” The question came from nowhere, and then there was a mug of tea sat in front of him, and then a man sat in front of him, his head resting against his hands.

“Afghanistan- Sorry, how do you know I was in Afghanistan?” John replied, his hands closing around the hot mug of tea, grounding him.

“I didn’t know, I saw.”

John rolled his eyes. “Okay, and how did you see?”

“You have a psychosomatic limp, you don’t believe it when your therapist tells you, though. She is right I’m afraid. You have a tan, that doesn’t extend over the wrists, so you haven’t been on holiday, but you _have_ been abroad.” The man furrowed his brow, tilting his head slightly as he looked at John and the doctor went still, feeling like a body at a morgue being examined. “Your posture reads army, and you’ve been invalided home. Where has war at the moment? Afghanistan, or Iraq.”

“That’s… Extraordinary, quite extraordinary.” John replied softly, taking a sip of his tea. It was made perfectly as well. This didn’t feel real to him.

“My violin is over there, if you’d like to look at it. Do you play?” Sherlock gestured to where his violin sat, by a music stand with a few sheets in it.

John glanced at it for a moment, before laughing at the comment. “God no. I don’t have a musical bone in my body.”

“Doctor aren’t you?”

“Yeah, oh, shit sorry. John Watson. Christ I hadn’t even introduced myself and you invited me in, I'm so sorry.” John laughed, embarrassed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Sherlock Holmes. No need for the apology, its quite alright.” Sherlock replied, hiding a soft smile with his mug as he took a sip. “Insomnia is it? Or PTSD.”

“Pardon?”

“Why you’re unable to sleep.”

“Oh uhm… I- Uh- The nightmares I guess. The men I couldn’t save, good men, friends. And the screams of the men while I saved them. It’s haunting…” John paused, glancing at Sherlock, who was staring at him intently. “Sorry I didn’t mean to-“

“That was the point of the exercise, John.” Sherlock gave him a nod. “You don’t like your therapist much do you?”

“How do you know about my therapist?”

Sherlock smirked. “You’ve got a psychosomatic limp, of course you have a therapist. A coma patient could have told you that.”

“And my limp? I’m sorry, you’re probably getting sick of this.” John replied, an amazed smile present on his face.

“No, it’s… Fine.” Sherlock paused before his face lit up, and he went back to talking. “Your limp, you ran up to my apartment, but didn’t remember until you had to pause, and stand for a moment. I assume you have a cane, and you took the umbrella without haste. Nobody with a limp would think of going anywhere without a cane, yet in your haste, you forgot.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John smiled, softly, staring down at his mug.

“So, I now know you have no issue with the violin, though I do go days on end without talking, and other days on end without stopping, would that bother you?” Sherlock spoke, breaking the silence. John looked up at him, confused as to why Sherlock was telling him this, why he was asking him this. “There’s a flat in central London, two bedrooms, and a fairly spacious living area. I know the land-lady, she’ll give us a better rate.”

“Are you asking me to have a flat-share with you?”

“Yes, if you’re interested.”

“Why?”

“Well you’re on an army pension, you won’t be able to live in this building forever, but living anywhere else than London…” He studied John for a second before continuing. “Pains you. You don’t have an issue with my constant deductions, nor my violin. I don’t have an issue with your pacing, nor your talking to yourself. Theoretically, it would work smoothly.”

“My pacing?”

“I do have ears John.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Apologetic.”

“Only when I'm making a tit out of myself.”

“You’re doing quite well, considerably less of an idiot than anybody else I know. Their funny little brains, working half the speed they could if only they’d just _think_.” Sherlock paused, standing up. “ You seem to think more than others, Doctor. Seven o’clock, Baker Street, the address is 221b. Take the umbrella.” He gave John a wink and the click of his tongue, before showing the doctor out now he’d finished his tea.

“Oh, okay then.”

 

John stood outside 221b baker street, glancing up at the building, cane in hand, his fist clenched tightly around it as his weight travelled through it to the floor.

“John! I didn’t expect you to come.” A gentle voice came, and then there was Sherlock beside him. He felt the weight in his chest lift suddenly, as he glanced up at the taller man, following him in.

 

He screamed. He screamed so loud Mrs Hudson downstairs could have heard him.

He could feel the gun in his hand, the shot firing, he could see the body drop to the floor as Sherlock’s hand dropped.

He’d killed a man today. Karma meant his leg was killing him back.

There were footsteps, as he fell back against the pillow, his chest rising and falling, the tears dripping down the sides of his face, the selfish thought of _why me?_ Rocketing through his head.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock asked, before opening the door.

His face somehow seemed to fall when he looked at John, as the dim light from the moon outside shone against his face. He was dressed, fully dressed minus his shoes. He hadn’t been sleeping, conducting experiments downstairs John presumed.

“I’m fine. I-I’m okay.” John pushed himself up, sitting staring back at Sherlock, before wiping the tears of his face, cursing himself for his weakness. “Go back to work, don’t let me-“ He groaned pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if it would supress the sounds in his head. “Don’t let me distract you.”

“Was it a nightmare?”

“Yes, I suppose, but I'm _fine_.” He insisted, cursing the pain in his leg, knowing that it shouldn’t be there, but his mind insisted it was.

Sherlock advanced forward, he was sitting on the side of John’s bed, his face mere inches away from the doctors own. His eyes carved directly into John’s gaze, studying them. “I'm not an idiot, John Watson. Can I help you?” He asked, his voice low and sincere.

“I don’t know.” John replied. It was honest.

“Move over and lie down.” Sherlock ordered, and to his utmost surprise, John listened without question.

The doctor stared at he ceiling, his leg straightened and tensed. He didn’t know what to expect and he didn’t know why, but for some reason he trusted whatever Sherlock was about to do.

He didn’t expect it though, so much so that he froze up when it happened.  

Sherlock laid beside him, his arm wrapped around John’s waist, and his head resting in the crook of Johns neck. His breath against John’s neck was strangely comforting, and his arm was grounding. John didn’t quite understand what on earth was happening, but as his breath left him he felt like his body wasn’t his own, he was floating above it somehow.

“What are you doing?” John muttered, but he wasn’t angry, Sherlock was warm, and surprisingly the rolled-up sleeves of the taller man’s shirt weren’t bothering him.

Sherlock hummed in amusement. “It isn’t true that sleeping alongside another actually helps nightmares, but I’ll be here if you wake up again.”

“And the cuddling?” John asked, turning his neck only to have Sherlocks curls tickle his nose. But he smiled anyway, pushing his face against it, pressing somewhat of a gentle kiss to the top of Sherlocks head.

Sherlock had guessed correctly that day, when he declined John’s attraction to him. John denied the fact outright, but he knew Sherlock knew rightly that he was lying.

And despite being married to his work, here Sherlock was, pressed against his side. A troubled marriage, John supposed and chuckled to himself.

He felt Sherlock smile into his neck. “I'm bored, and cold, and you’re warm. I haven’t slept in about three days, considering that I was up all night yesterday, playing the violin, for you. I have more chance of falling asleep with something to focus on.” The lowness of his voice vibrated through John’s chest.

“And that would be?”

“Your breathing.”

“That’s reassuring. Considering it wouldn’t be too hard for you to stop it- Was this supposed to be a comforting gesture?” John laughed into Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock grinned into the doctor’s skin. “Bearing in mind you saved my life today, I’ll spare yours for now.”

“You’re a right git.”

“With whom you’re sharing a flat.”

“God help me.”


End file.
